


All My Words Written on Your Signs

by ellipsometry



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Didn't Know They Were Dating, M/M, Too Many Italics Probably, Workplace AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 19:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10287143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsometry/pseuds/ellipsometry
Summary: “Surprise engagement party!” Sugawara explains, “Well, a mini-party, to celebrate you and Ushiwaka finally making it official!”Startled, Oikawa chokes on nothing, sputtering his words until he can finally formulate his oh-so-elegant rebuttal, “Ushiwaka and I aren’t engaged, what the fuck?”Oikawa is surprised to be thrown an engagement party.  His friends are more surprised to find out that Oikawa is not actually engaged.





	

**Author's Note:**

> my pinch hit hq!! rarepair exchange fic for lin aka digiclouds!!  
> this prompt was so up my alley i was surprised i didn't write it myself. i enjoyed writing this fic so i hope you enjoy reading it! :)

It is far, far too quiet.  That should have been Oikawa’s first warning.

Oikawa’s neighbors aren’t _loud_ , per se, but it’s become a pretty accepted fact that their wing of the apartment building will always be a bit noisier than most.  Bokuto from upstairs is a nightmare in his own right, Sugawara has a whole roster of noisy friends, and Futakuchi is always yelling for some godforsaken reason.  So, when Oikawa rounds the corner toward his apartment and hears the sweet sound of silence, it’s apparent that something is very, very wrong.

His second warning is message from Suga – _what time are you coming home tonight?_ – which Oikawa sees light up his phone screen as he fishes in his bag for his keys.  That’s odd.  It’s Friday night, and Suga almost always stays in on Fridays, drinking wine and drunk blogging about whatever happens to be bothering him that day.  Why would he want to know what Oikawa was doing?

Then – and this is certainly the most obvious clue yet that something is amiss – there is the loud, cheerful yelling that greets Oikawa when he unlocks his apartment door and steps inside.

“Suprise!!”

“Wh—” Oikawa blinks a couple times, “Who are we surprising?”

“You, silly” Sugawara says, clapping Oikawa hard on the back and steering him into the living room.  There are about half a dozen people congregated therein, “We’ve been waiting for you to get home!”

Oikawa narrows his eyes, “And why are you surprising me?”

“You’re engaged!!” Bokuto says, punctuating the statement with a fist pump.

“Surprise engagement party!” Sugawara explains, “Well, a mini-party, to celebrate you and Ushiwaka finally making it official!”

Startled, Oikawa chokes on nothing, sputtering his words until he can finally formulate his oh-so-elegant rebuttal, “Ushiwaka and I aren’t _engaged_ , what the fuck?”

“Oh,” Suga says, clearly disappointed, “Oh no.”

(It turns out to be a disappointing surprise party for everyone involved.  Oikawa regrets giving Sugawara the spare key to his apartment.)

 

+

 

The whole mess starts, of course, with a ring.  And a very ugly ring at that.

The ring is yellow gold, first of all, which is a mortal sin as far as Oikawa is concerned.  Oikawa Tooru has _always_ been more of a white gold kind of guy, everyone knows that.  But if the hideous tone wasn’t enough, there’s also the hammered finish, and the sheer massive unwieldiness of it.  The ring looks like the gold-brushed face of a pock-marked teenager, and on Oikawa’s long, slender finger it’s nothing short of an eyesore; completely unmissable.

The ring is not something Oikawa would ever have selected for himself, even with a gun to his head.  And yet, there it is.  All for him.  On the inside of the ring, there is an inscription of Oikawa’s name, and a message: _Congratulations on Ten Years!_

“Did they give you one of these monstrosities last year when you hit ten years?  Follow-up question, how did you refrain from laughing in their faces, because I had a pretty hard time of it.”

After escaping the awkward exchange with his supervisors and a half-hearted champagne toast celebrating his ten-year work anniversary, Oikawa makes a beeline to Ushijima’s office, draping himself against the doorframe with typical dramatic flair.

Ushijima only shrugs, “I cannot say I felt the urge to laugh.”

Oikawa snorts.  Of course, Ushijima Wakatoshi, consummate professional and favorite of nearly everyone in the office, would not have felt the urge to laugh when presented with a memento commemorating a work milestone, no matter how hideous it was.  (Even worse, Oikawa thinks with a shudder, Ushijima probably doesn’t realize just how ugly the ring is.  He might even think it’s _stylish_.)

“I can’t _not_ wear it… right?  The boss will notice, won’t he?”

“I wore it for about a week, to be polite,” Ushijima says, “I am not much for jewelry.”

Most departments give their employees paperweights or plaques or something else appropriately boring for work anniversaries.  A watch, on occasion, or maybe a necklace.  But not too many people in Ushijima and Oikawa’s department make it to ten years, due to the grueling workload, and that apparently warranted some extra special recognition.  Oikawa wished the bosses had saved themselves the trouble.

“Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa whines, “Wear your ring too so I don’t look like a freak wearing mine.”

“Oikawa,” Ushijima intones, “I doubt anyone will notice if you do or don’t wear it.”

The whining continues, “But _I’ll_ notice!”

Eventually – and it really doesn’t take long – Ushijima relents, fishing his own ring out from his desk drawer and sliding on his left ring finger.  He is, as usual, fairly helpless to Oikawa’s prodding.

He displays his hand to Oikawa, smiling wryly, “Happy?”

“Very!” Oikawa grins.  And he really, really is.

 

+

 

Sometimes it feels like nothing and everything has changed in the past ten years.  Oikawa still wakes up in the morning to the same alarm clock, he gets to work at the same time, sliding in the door just a minute past 9 o’clock.  The trademark swoop of his bangs is omnipresent, even as his face sheds baby fat and his shoulders broaden with age.  He gets reading glasses.

And then there are the details that would have seemed surreal to Oikawa just a handful of years ago.  Ushijima brings Oikawa a coffee in the morning, every morning.  And Ushijima makes sure not to even attempt to say _good morning_ until Oikawa has downed at least half of his sugary nightmare of a latte.  (Ushijima’s coffee is nearly as sweet, though everyone assumes he takes it black.)

The pair chat and bicker a bit about whatever new project they have coming up, before retreating to their separate offices.  (During Oikawa’s first year at the company they had put him in a matchbox of a cubicle adjacent to Ushijima’s, something everyone in a ten-foot radius would later come to regret.)

They have lunch together, they check in with each other throughout the day, they meet at the watercooler and play at being ordinary salarymen (rather than ambition-driven monsters who often need to be reined in, sometimes by a boss, sometimes by each other.)

If someone had told Oikawa seven or eight years ago that Ushijima Wakatoshi – his most hated co-worker and designated arch rival – would one day become his best friend, his anchor, his constant in a stressful and cutthroat work environment… Well, suffice it to say Oikawa would have had some choice words for them.

“Actually, you’re not my _best_ friend,” Oikawa says over lunch one day.  He’s responding to his own thought, rather than an actually line of questioning, “Iwa-chan is still my best friend.  But you’re pretty good too, I guess.”

Ushijima is unbothered by the unprompted conversation, “I suppose the same is true for me.  Satori is probably my best friend.”

“Hey!” Oikawa looks wounded, “I’m allowed to have other best friends but I’m still supposed to be _your_ best friend!”

“Well, you are extremely important to me.”

The way Ushijima says it, so plainly, without a hint of irony, still sends Oikawa for a loop, even after all this time.  What was it that had made him hate Ushijima so much when they first met?  It seems childish now, and counterproductive considering what a great team they made at work.

“I never hated you,” Ushijima says when Oikawa brings this up, “I admired your work greatly.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s why you were constantly criticizing me.”

“I only wanted to help you improve,” Ushijima raises an eyebrow, “I guess my delivery was somewhat lacking back then.”

“You could say that!” Oikawa snorts, “But you grew on me.  Like a weed, probably.”

A smile, “Even weeds serve their purpose, you know.”

“So I’ve been told,” Oikawa rolls his eyes.  It’s nearly impossible to spend any time with Ushijima and not learn an errant fact or two about gardening.

The cafe they’re in is getting crowded, so they finish their lunch and grab the bill.  This is when they run into Sugawara.  This, Oikawa thinks, is probably when everything went wrong.

It should have been obvious.  Suga’s eyes narrow immediately after they greet him, as he takes in the ugly monstrosity of a ring on Oikawa’s left hand.  Oikawa hides it instinctively.  When Ushijima returns from paying the bill, Suga’s eyes go completely round, comically so, taking in Ushijima’s matching ring.  They say farewell, and Oikawa almost misses the way Sugawara cocks his head to the side, watching the gentle way Ushijima’s hand rests at the small of Oikawa’s back, guiding him through the small crowd of patrons.

Sugawara brings this up after Oikawa has shuffled the disappointed surprise partygoers out of his apartment.  And, well, when he puts it that way, the evidence does look a bit damning.

“Who wears matching rings just for fun!” Suga says, woefully tearing down some streamers and balling them up, “I mean, who _does_ that?!”

“I _told_ you, it’s a dumb work thing,” Oikawa moans, swatting down the bundle of streamers when Suga tosses them toward the trashcan.  He feels an overwhelming urge to break something, anything, “Why would we even— just fucking—”

 _We aren’t even dating_ , is what Oikawa wants to say, but the taste of the words feels wrong in his mouth.  We aren’t _even_ dating – as though if they _were_ dating the prospect of an engagement would be normal.  Either way, it’s completely insane.

“Besides,” Oikawa says, before he can stop himself, “I would never pick out such an ugly ring.  Well, maybe Ushiwaka-chan would, but then I’d absolutely turn him down.”

Suga laughs, but all Oikawa can think is _what the fuck am I saying and why the fuck am I saying it._ The image of Ushijima, knee bent, displaying a modest silver engagement band is suddenly at the forefront of Oikawa’s mind.  He wonders how Ushijima would propose.  Not in public, for sure.  He’d probably opt for a private proposal, maybe after a home-cooked meal, or over breakfast.  He’d say something simple, nothing too flowery, that’s not his style—

“Well, my bad.  About this whole thing.” Suga rests a hand on Oikawa’s shoulder, and the latter startles out of his thoughts, clearing his throat.

“W-Why would you even, er,” Oikawa waves his hand in the air, “Why would you think Wakatoshi and I would get engaged?”

Sugawara laughs again, but this time it’s awkward, forced, “You know why!”

Oikawa really, really doesn’t, “Seriously.”

“You and Ushijima have been dating for, what, six or seven years now!” Suga says, plainly, like he’s explaining it to an elementary student, “We all just figured it was about time.”

By the time the words fully sink in, Oikawa’s brain has already cycled through the seven stages of grief.  That must be showing on his face, because Sugawara looks properly horrified in response, like he’s just accidentally stepped on a dormant landmine.

(Suga excuses himself immediately.  Oikawa doesn’t get much sleep that night.)

 

+

 

When Ushijima wakes up, he has no text notifications from Oikawa.  He knows immediately that something is amiss.

Despite the fact that Ushijima is fairly dry texter (self-described), Oikawa never seems to tire of texting him.  Any time of the day, for any reason, even if they are in the same room or literally sitting next to each other, Ushijima can be sure that he has a number of texts from Oikawa.  It’s a universal constant (along with Oikawa’s use of emoticons that seems more suited to a teenage girl than to a thirtysomething year old man.)

This morning, when Ushijima checks his phone with blurry eyes, he has a long string of texts from Tendou, a voicemail from his mother, and more unread emails than he can bear to think about yet.  

But no messages from Oikawa.  And, so, this is how Ushijima knows that something is very, very wrong.

Ushijima goes about his morning – he goes on a quick jog, makes breakfast, gets dressed.  He makes sure to stop at the cafe two blocks down from the office to get Oikawa a white chocolate mocha latte with extra whipped cream.  It’s his go-to comfort drink when he’s upset, reserved for special occasions because of, as Oikawa had put it, _all those fucking calories that I don’t need._

“What’s this for?” is all Oikawa says when Ushijima sets the coffee down on his desk.

“I thought you might need it,” Ushijima says slowly, cocking his head to the side, attempting to make eye contact with Oikawa.  The other man does an expert job at avoiding Ushijima’s eyes, snatching the latte and downing at least half of it at once.

“Tooru,” Ushijima continues, watching the way the tension seeps out of Oikawa’s shoulders the moment Ushijima uses his given name, “Is there something wrong?”

“No!” Oikawa answers, a bit too quickly, “No, nothing’s wrong.  Maybe there’s something wrong with _you_ Ushiwaka, huh?  Ever think about that?”

There _is_ something wrong, that much Ushijima is now certain of.  Under normal circumstances, Oikawa would have teased Ushijima relentlessly for dropping nearly eight hundred yen on a ‘gourmet’ latte, and for using Oikawa’s given name, and for doting on him in a way that has started to become second nature.  The teasing is just a part of their ritual, something Oikawa has to get out of the way before he can glance over at Ushijima in his uncharacteristically shy way and say _thank you Wakatoshi._

“I’ve been thinking my apartment is too small,” Ushijima says finally, “I’ll be moving into a larger place soon.”

“... Huh?”

“You said there might be something wrong with me, so I thought I’d share my troubles,” Ushijima says, one corner of his mouth twitching upward, “I’m worried about the move, I suppose.  It will be a big change.”

Ushijima’s new condo is massive, far larger than any bachelor really needs.  But he had bought it as an investment in his future, imagining he could settle down there.  He could share it with someone he loves, steadily fill up the empty rooms with cribs and beds, fill up the cathedral ceilings with the noise of a happy family.

Until that time, though, the place is lonely.  He considers, not for the first time, asking Oikawa to move in with him.  It’s financially logical, Ushijima is sure of that, and just common sense.  They spend so much time together, so why not?  Surely, they will continue to be an important part of each other's’ lives for the for foreseeable future… won’t they?  And then, when they each get married, the can simply part ways.  Ushijima will marry and start his own family, and so will Oikawa.

For some reason, that notion bothers Ushijima, leaves him with an acrid taste in his mouth.  The image of Oikawa married to a beautiful, blushing bride.  Oikawa, holding a crying, ruddy-faced baby in his arms, looking like a proud father.  And Ushijima, nowhere in sight.

Something about it doesn’t sit right with him.

“This is riveting stuff, Ushiwaka,” Oikawa deadpans, still avoiding actually looking at Ushijima, “I think I’d rather hear about your boring plants.”

Ushijima can’t help but take the bait, “If you’re interested, I can share you on the spreadsheet with my plants’ growth rates.  Gerald is really coming along nicely.”

‘Gerald’ is the name of Ushijima’s tomato plant.  He had gotten into a habit of naming his plants, back during college when he started windowsill gardening.  Oikawa had laughed mercilessly at that, but then gone on to insist that he be allowed to name at least one of Ushijima’s plants.  The name he had settled on, for whatever reason, was Gerald.

The reference, usually enough to coax a smile out of Oikawa, is ignored.  Oikawa looks uncharacteristically nervous, fingers tapping on his keyboard absentmindedly, an attempt to look busy.  Ushijima takes this as his cue to leave and bows out of Oikawa’s office, feeling more put out than he cares to admit.

When Ushijima cares about something or someone, it’s just the simple truth that he doesn’t know how _not_ to be all in.  It’s just how he’s been, for as long as he can remember.

This was how it had been with Oikawa, from the first day Ushijima met him.  Even when Oikawa was cursing and fighting him, Ushijima was silently memorizing the patterns in the soft spray of freckles across Oikawa’s nose.  That was just the way he worked.

As per their usual daily ritual, Ushijima waits outside Oikawa’s office before lunch.  They haven’t decided where they’re going today, so perhaps they’ll end up in the employee cafeteria, or maybe at that new cafe, where Ushijima might finally be able to get Oikawa to try kale—

“Oh... you’re here.”

Oikawa looks surprised to see Ushijima when he steps out of his office, which is as clear an indicator as any that something is fishy.  This is their routine, so imbedded into their lives that when, on occasion, Ushijima had to cancel lunch to meet with a client or finish a project, Oikawa had protested and then whined about it for weeks on end.

“I’m always here.”

“Well, sorry, I can’t, um,” Oikawa scratches behind his ear, “I have a conference call, I can’t come to lunch today.”

“Oh,” Ushijima nods.  Then, noticing Oikawa’s obviously unadorned hand, he says, “You’re not wearing your ring.”

Oikawa recoils his hand from where it had been gripping the doorframe, clutching it like it’s been burned, “Yeah, forgot it at home, silly me!” He flashes Ushijima a half-hearted smile, before bolting past him, “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

As he watches Oikawa go, Ushijima feels a seed of unease plant itself in his gut.  It’s not a feeling he’s used to, honestly, and not one he’s particularly fond of.  Looking down at his hand, where the anniversary ring sits nestled firmly under his knuckle, Ushijima finds the ring is a bit uglier than he had remembered.

 

+

 

As he usually does when he’s having an emotional crisis, Oikawa calls Iwaizumi.  After giving a half-hearted excuse to Ushijima before lunch, Oikawa bolts to the stairwell, climbing three floors to the seventeenth floor, to a place where he knows he can be alone.

The company is expanding soon, and this entire floor is gutted in preparation for construction.  There never actually seems to be anyone around doing any work, though, and so Oikawa has come up on occasion for some privacy.  Now is certainly one of those times.

Because Iwaizumi has been Oikawa’s best friend for as long as either of them can remember, Oikawa is expecting that he will have an immediate answer, and immediate solution to the problem at hand.  What Oikawa doesn’t expect is for the line to go completely silent the moment that he asks, “Are Ushiwaka and I dating?”

After a pause far too long for Oikawa’s liking, Iwaizumi clears his throat and says, “... Do you mind if I make this a conference call?”

“I _do_ actually.”

“Cool, hang on a second.”

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa’s whining falls on deaf ears, and he’s interrupted by the sound of another phone ringing.  Oikawa pouts before realizing that Iwaizumi can’t actually see him.  (He should have video chatted – his wide range of facial expressions really does warrant it.)

The third line connects, and Oikawa hears the deep baritone of Matsukawa Issei, “Hello?”

“Hey, Mattsun, check it out – Oikawa, tell him what you just told me.”

“I don’t wanna,” Oikawa says, petulantly.

Iwaizumi scoffs, “Oikawa just asked me ‘are Ushiwaka and I dating?’”

“Oh my god,” there’s some shuffling on Matsukawa’s end, like he’s sitting down, “He finally fuckin’ realized it.”

“Who wins then?”

“Me, I think,” Mattsun says, marveling, “Still can’t believe it took this long.”

“Ex _cuse_ me!  Start talking _to_ me and not _about_ me so I can figure out what the hell is going on!” Oikawa huffs, tapping his knuckles against the wall, like a crescendo to some grand reveal.

Iwaizumi laughs softly, “Sorry, Oikawa, it’s just…”

“Just we took a bet on when you and Ushiwaka would finally get together,” Matsukawa supplies.

“You _what?!_ ”

“I think I won, but it was so long ago I think I forgot what I get for winning.”

Oikawa has moved on to tapping his foot against the bare, concrete floor, like an impatient mother observing his unruly children, “So you all have just been playing games with my love life.  Great.  Very cool of you guys.  Very mature.”

Iwaizumi’s eyeroll is so potent Oikawa can feel it even over the phone, “Get over it Oikawa, it was nearly ten years ago.”

“ _Super_ delayed gratification,” Matsukawa adds, “No one thought it would take this long.”

“Makki thought you two would end up angrily making out in the office within six months of meeting each other.”

“We never did that!” Oikawa shrieks, unable to stop him own imagination.  How many times _had_ he wanted to just shut Ushijima up by any means necessary?  To just put him in his place for once?  And how _perfect_ would it have been to claim him like that, to push Ushijima up against a wall, paralyze him with shock and desire—

“In any case,” Iwaizumi says, “You two are definitely dating.”

“Not true,” Oikawa whines, although he’s feeling his ability to properly protest fading away, “We’ve never… we haven’t— don’t you have to explicitly ask someone to date you in order to be dating?”

“I mean, maybe.  But you’ve probably passed that point,” Mattsun says, “I think I’ve seen actual married couples less domestic than the two of you.”

“Seconded,” Iwaizumi says, “Just because you don’t call it dating doesn’t mean it isn’t y’know… _dating_.”

Oikawa opens his mouth to dispute that, but he finds he really can’t.  How many times had he turned down an invitation from any number of attractive men and women because he already had plans with Ushijima?  How many dinners and nights in and overnight trips had they spent together?  In ways both purposeful and unconscious, Ushijima had become Oikawa’s cornerstone, the fulcrum on which he balanced his worries, his happiness, his hopes and fears.

“Oh,” Oikawa says quietly, “Oh no.”

“You totally love him don’t you?” Matsukawa says, in a tone far too casual for the weight of the realization that’s just unfolded itself inside Oikawa’s brain.

“Oh _no_.”

 

+

 

Oikawa is, for lack of a better word, going fucking insane.

Over the next week or so, he does his best to avoid Ushijima at all costs.  As it turns out, Oikawa’s best is not nearly good enough.  Ushijima is _everywhere_ — in the morning with a coffee for Oikawa, at lunch droning on and on about the misconceptions of genetically modified food, on Google Docs giving Oikawa helpful tips for their upcoming presentation.

The most infuriating part, Oikawa thinks, is that nothing has really changed.  Ushijima is steadfast as always, the same patient smile, the same spark in his eyes, the same deadpan humor.  Oikawa still likes spending time with him – well, that’s not entirely correct.

Oikawa _loves_ spending time with him.  He loves having Ushijima around.  He loves Ushijima Wakatoshi.

“I’m losing my mind,” Oikawa hisses into his phone one night, another emergency call to Iwaizumi after a late night at the office.  Oikawa had apparently nodded off in the middle of some research and had awoken to find himself leaning against Ushijima, who was still hard at work.  Rather than waking Oikawa up when he had fallen asleep, Ushijima had draped his blazer over Oikawa’s sleeping form.

It was all so tooth-melting, mind-boggling sweet that Oikawa had garbled out a frantic goodbye, grabbed his belongings, and bolted out without another word.  He seems to be doing a lot of that lately.

“I took his fucking jacket!  This isn’t my jacket!”

“I can’t see it, you know, so repeating that isn’t really doing much for me,” Iwaizumi says, voice tired, “Please stop acting like a teenager and just tell him that you like him.”

“I can’t do that!” Oikawa shrieks, “Then he’ll know I like him!”

(Iwaizumi laughs for a full three minutes before hanging up.)

In truth, Oikawa is no novice when it comes to romance.  He’s had his fair share of relationships, he’s an expert flirt, and yet he can’t really get anyone to _stay_ longer than a few months.  After a while he had simply stopped trying.  Aside from a few one night stands and errant blind dates, Oikawa had mostly sworn off relationships, focusing on work instead.

Work and Ushijima, apparently.

 _if i tell him i love him and he doesnt feel the same ive basically just fucked my entire life,_ Oikawa texts to Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi texts back immediately, _You’re telling me that as it stands your life doesn’t already feel fucked?_

 

+

 

Ushijima Wakatoshi can bench press 96 kilograms.

This is something that Oikawa has always known, as Ushijima’s gym partner and designated spotter.  Now, after certain _realizations_ , this fact is manifesting itself quite differently in Oikawa’s brain.

“You could literally bench press me,” Oikawa mumbles, face red with more than just exhaustion.  He’s no slouch, but Oikawa is pretty sure he couldn’t bench press Ushijima if the tables were turned.

“That would make for a challenging exercise,” Ushijima says, grunting as he re-racks the weights, “We should try it some time.”

The noise that comes out of Oikawa’s mouth is particularly unbecoming of a man of his age and professionalism.  Ushijima just laughs under his breath.

Their weekly gym sessions are proving to be particularly difficult for Oikawa, who can’t help but track Ushijima’s every movement with greedy eyes, taking in the way his back curves as he stretches, or the flex of his biceps as he does his curls, or the way his sweat drips down the nape of his neck.

Oikawa is suffering.

“I think I’m going to quit early today,” he says, ducking out to the locker room as soon as possible without being too suspicious.  Oikawa takes a very, very cold shower, relishing the feeling of the cool water on his feverish skin.  He starts to wish he could sooth his overloaded brain quite as easily.

When he emerges from the showers, wearing sweatpants but still shirtless and drying his hair, Ushijima is waiting for him, sitting on one of the narrow, uncomfortable locker room benches.

“Ah,” his mouth parts when he sees Oikawa, and he stands up, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Oh?” Oikawa tries to sound casual, “What’s up?”

“I was hoping—” Ushijima starts toward Oikawa, who flinches involuntarily, feeling suddenly vulnerable under Ushijima’s gaze.

Ushijima re-starts his train of thought, “Is something wrong?  You’ve been a bit… off lately.”

“Off how?” Oikawa asks, voice a few octaves higher than usual.  He busies himself with his locker, grateful that no one else is there to witness his bumbling humiliation.

“Well, you won’t look at me, for one.”

To make a point, Oikawa turns quickly on his heel to face Ushijima.  This turns out to be a massive mistake.  Ushijima’s face is only a half dozen inches from Oikawa’s own, and he’s pinning Oikawa with a concerned look.  He’s so close that Oikawa can see the flecks of gold his eyes.  How had he never noticed that before?

“I’m worried about you,” Ushijima’s frown deepens, “Did I do something wrong?”

And that, more than anything else, finally breaks Oikawa.  The idea that Ushijima could think that he had ever done something _wrong_ when, in reality, the problem at hand was one entirely of Oikawa’s own making, is simply more than Oikawa can bear.

It’s completely involuntary – though not unwelcome – the way that Oikawa instantly surges forward, smashing his lips against Ushijima’s, capturing them in a fierce, unrefined kiss.  Ushijima’s lips are slightly chapped, but plush.  He doesn’t taste like anything in particular, but feels altogether familiar – warm, inviting, comfortable.

As soon as it begins, the kiss is over.  Oikawa, red-faced and mortified, snatches his bag out of his locker and sprints out of the locker room, missing completely the way Ushijima’s hand lingers in the air, as if he had been reaching to pull Oikawa closer.

(Oikawa realizes, halfway to the train station, that he’s forgotten his shirt, but it’s too late to turn back now.)

 

+

 

“I think I’m having a stroke.”

Suga doesn’t bother looking over at Oikawa, who is lounging on his couch examining a policy memo.  “I think you might just be a moron,” he deadpans.

“No, honestly!” Oikawa stands up, tossing the papers behind him dramatically.  It makes for a nice visual, but Suga wonders how mad Oikawa will be when he has to pick all those papers up later, “I’ve been reading the same sentence over and over, and the words don’t even make sense to me.  I can’t _focus!”_

“Not actually the symptoms of a stroke, funnily enough,” Suga hums, “You’re just distracted because of Ushiwaka.”

“This has _nothing_ to do with Waka— Ushiwaka!” Oikawa stares at the papers strewn across his living room and seems to decide that is a matter for future Oikawa to deal with.

“Methinks you doth protest too much— or whatever.”

“Methinks you should shut the fuck up.”

“Harsh,” Suga snickers, “Well, what’s going on with Ushiwaka, then?  You can’t keep ignoring him forever.”

Oikawa slumps back down onto the couch, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his pointer finger, “I kissed him the other day.”

“What?!” Suga swivels in his seat, “You can’t just drop that on me!  What happened?!”

“Nothing,” Oikawa says quickly, “I panicked, I didn’t mean to actually kiss him.”

“So it was… bad?”

“Yes.  No.  Maybe?” Oikawa groans, “I literally just smashed my face against his.  It was horrific, you’d think I was some kind of high school virgin.”

“Forty-year-old virgin, maybe,” Suga quips, which earns him a throw pillow to the face from Oikawa, “Fine, fine!  The obvious solution is to try kissing him again!”

“How is that the obvious solution?” Oikawa buries his face into the couch cushion, “We haven’t even talked about it since then.  We haven’t even really _talked_ since then.”

Saying it out loud makes Oikawa realize just how miserable it is, not talking to Ushijima.  There’s no one there to bounce ideas off of, no one to rein him in when he’s getting too intense about something.  And besides, teasing interns just isn’t nearly as fun as teasing Ushijima.

“Kiss him again so I can stop watching you mope,” Suga says, leaning over to pet Oikawa’s head, “You’re not yourself when you’re like this.”

Oikawa doesn’t miss the implication: _You’re not yourself without Ushijima._  And really, it’s the truth.

 

+

 

_Oikawa, can I ask you something?  Please meet me on the 17th floor at lunch if you are free._

The text from Ushijima might as well be a death warrant, as far as Oikawa is concerned.  This is it, his time is come.  He marches up the stairs like a dead man walking.

The seventeenth floor is empty as always, although it looks like the construction workers have actually made some progress since the last time Oikawa came up.  A few offices are completed, breaking up the massive expanse of the floor, but the carpet still hasn’t been laid.

The view from the windows is spectacular as always.  This time, though, Oikawa also takes in Ushijima, leaning against the floor-to-ceiling windows and looking down on the streets below.  He’s nothing but a silhouette against the bright, mid-day sun.

“Why’d you wanna talk up here?”

“I wanted to ask you something in private,” Ushijima answers, turning around to face Oikawa, “And I noticed you come up here when you want to be alone.”

 _Of course_ , Oikawa.  Nothing escapes Ushijima.  (Well, that’s not entirely true.  Most topical humor, some social graces, and the appeal of the movie _Finding Nemo_ all escape Ushijima.  But when it comes to Oikawa, nothing does.)

“Well, shoot.”

Ushijima nods, “You know how I’m moving soon, correct?  I wanted to ask you something about that—”

“Hold on.  This is about your new place?” Oikawa looks incredulous, but Ushijima just nods, “You mean you’re not going to ask me about the whole… you know— the whole kiss thing?  Remember when I literally _kissed_ you the other day?”

“I wasn’t planning on asking about it, no.”

“Why the fuck not?” Oikawa says, nearly manic, “Don’t you wanna know why I did it?”

Ushijima seems to ponder this for a second, before finally settling on, “I am curious, yes.  I guess I figured it was just you behaving oddly as per usual.”

“ _As per usual,_ ” Oikawa hisses, mockingly, “Okay, well, I guess I guess we just won’t fucking talk about it and go about our business, that sounds fucking normal.”

“I suppose,” Ushijima just cocks an eyebrow, stepping over a bit of construction equipment to close the gap between him and Oikawa, “We could talk about it.  But I have a question first.”

“What?” Oikawa snaps, face reddening the closer Ushijima gets.

It’s not necessarily rare for Oikawa to get flustered.  What _is_ rare is for Oikawa to get flustered around Ushijima.  Angry, yes.  Embarrassed, maybe.  But never _flustered_ , never tripping over his words or averting his eyes or otherwise fidgeting like he has been of late.  Without immediately understanding why, Ushijima decides that he likes seeing Oikawa like this.

“Will you move in with me?”

Oikawa blinks once, twice, “... Excuse me?”

“I told you I’m moving into a new condo,” Ushijima explains, “It’s quite large, and I think it would be beneficial for us to live together, for a number of reasons.”  The words don’t seem to be sinking in as Ushijima watches Oikawa’s face cycle through several different manifestations of confusion.

“Financially, for example,” Ushijima continues, “Investing in a property would be good for both of us.  Completing work projects would be simpler, too, if we were closer to each other.”

Oikawa just blinks, looking dumbfounded.

In their work together, Oikawa is typically the one to charm clients with compliments and effusive language.  This is why Ushijima feels a bit out of his depth as he takes a deep breath and says, “Plus, I would enjoy having you around more.  Your company, I mean.”

This finally gets a response out of Oikawa, who snorts and says, “Who wouldn’t?”

“It’s true,” Ushijima shrugs, glancing back over his shoulder to where he can see the skyline of the city through the massive windows.  He is suddenly a bit bashful, not eager to meet Oikawa’s gaze, “I feel confident that you will continue to be an important part of my life, and I… I hope that you feel similarly about me.  I am sometimes frustrated at the lack of access I have to you when we are apart,” Ushijima frowns, “You know I’m not much for phone conversations.  So, I’d rather we just live together so I can be with you whenever I want.”

Oikawa lets out a bark of laughter, “So greedy, Ushiwaka-chan!  Those are some pretty heavy promises, you know?  You can’t just go saying that without meaning it.”  His tone is light, teasing, but his voice is shaking, and when Ushijima finally brings himself to finally look at Oikawa, he finds tears swimming in the other man’s eyes, clinging to his long lashes, threatening to spill.

“Did I… say something wrong?” Ushijima reaches out to Oikawa, but he recoils, and every dormant fear Ushijima has ever had of pushing Oikawa too far and losing their hard-fought closeness bubbles to the surface.

But Oikawa half-yells, “Of course you didn’t!” and Ushijima halts, half half outstretched to where Oikawa stands, hands clenched into fists, tears newly dried from fury.

“You say all the right things, dumbass,” Oikawa continues, “But you’re saying them to the wrong person!  You should be saying this to your girlfriend, or boyfriend, or who the fuck ever.  Say this to someone you love, not to me.  Don’t say that kind of stuff to me when we aren’t even… we aren’t even _together_.”

His tone is pleading, “Don’t say stuff like that unless you want me to take it the wrong way.”

The look in Oikawa’s eyes is making Ushijima’s throat go tight, and all he can manage to say is, “We can.”

“... We can what?”

“Be together,” Ushijima blurts out, uncharacteristic for someone usually so measured with his words, “We can be together, I mean.  If you’d like.”

“Well, I— I mean, what if _you_ —” Oikawa stammers, eyes wide and watery, “Obviously, I’d like that!”  

Oikawa seems surprised hearing the words coming out of his own mouth, and Ushijima can’t help but laugh.  It’s a loud, uncontrollable laugh that comes bubbling up.  He feels like, airy, like something’s just been lifted off his shoulders, a weight he wasn’t totally aware he was carrying.

“Why are you laughing?” Oikawa smacks Ushijima’s arm, and Ushijima moves to capture Oikawa’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers together, relishing the blush of red that blooms across Oikawa’s face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.  I’m just happy,” Ushijima says, as plain and as simply as always, “I’d like that too, for us to be together.  I think I’ve wanted it for a while.”

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” Oikawa goes to bury his face in his hands, but Ushijima’s already grabbed his other hand as well, leaving him defenseless, “Everyone thought we were dating and I was just losing my _mind_ , they thought we were engaged you know?  Because of the rings!  And I’ve been feeling like a moron for _weeks,_ Wakatoshi, I swear to god—”

The moment Ushijima leans down and kisses him softly, Oikawa goes silent, paralyzed.  And then, slowly, he melts into the kiss, his entire body relaxing.  It’s altogether different from their messy locker room kiss.  This time it’s tender, inviting, and Oikawa finds himself going to deepen the kiss without a second thought, licking across Ushijima’s lips and pulling him closer.

But Ushijima pulls back with a wry smile, “I guess I was satisfied with how our relationship as it was, to answer your question.”

“Oh,” Oikawa nods, perhaps still a bit dazed from their kiss.

“I didn’t want to rush anything,” Ushijima continues, throat tight, “I… When we first met, I wanted to be your friend.  I admired you, but I rushed it and approached you awkwardly, and we ended up as enemies.  I never want that again.”

There’s a pause while Ushijima’s words hang in the air.  After a moment, Oikawa slips his hands out of Ushijima’s and reaches up to pinch the other man’s cheeks, _hard_.

“Idiot!  You know I could never hate you again,” Oikawa pulls at the flesh of Ushijima’s cheeks again, “And believe me, I’ve tried.  But I wouldn’t have accidentally dated you for seven years if I could.”

Ushijima smiles, “I missed a lot of anniversaries, didn’t I?”

“You did!” Oikawa slips his arms around Ushijima’s torso, grinning up at him.

“But I’m sure you’ll make up for it.”

 

+

 

Ushijima wasn’t quite sure that the announcement of his and Oikawa’s official relationship status required a department-wide mass email, but Oikawa had insisted that it was.  Subject: WAKATOSHI AND I ARE IN LOVE JOKES ON YOU GUYS.  There are many well wishes, a call from the human resources manager asking them to fill out some relationship disclosure paperwork, and an email from new hire Akira Kunimi reading simply “unsubscribe.”

When all is said and done, moving into their new place ends up being a pretty simple affair.  Oikawa hires a moving company, though Ushijima insists he would have been happy to move Oikawa’s belongings for him.  Although the image of Ushijima’s muscles bulging as he lugs the many, many boxes of Oikawa’s things for him is appealing, Oikawa defers, dragging his new boyfriend out for a date instead.  The words are new and foreign and wonderful as Oikawa says them: _date, boyfriend, love._  He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of it.

They throw a housewarming party, and Iwaizumi only says _I told you so_ once, which is a victory as far as Oikawa is concerned.

“You’re wearing it again.  That ring,” Ushijima says that night.  They’re cleaning up, and Ushijima is washing the dishes by hand, even though Oikawa had said at least twenty times _we have a fucking dishwasher for a reason!_  It’s infuriating.  And begrudgingly charming.

“Oh,” Oikawa examines his hand.  He’s been wearing the work anniversary ring on and off for a while.  Somehow the chain of events it launched make it seem a great deal less ugly, “I guess it’s grown on me.”

Ushijima smiles softly, “Like me.”

“A bit like you.  Though you’re much better looking.”

“Well, there is one good thing about it,” Ushijima says casually, “When we get engaged I won’t have to buy you a new ring.”

It takes a second for the words to sink in, but when they do, Oikawa is stammering over his response, brain stuck on the unbelievable certainty with which Ushijima says _when_.   _When_ they get engaged.   _When_ they decide, once and for all, that they do want to spend the rest of their lives together.  It’s a bit much, in the way that Ushijima has always been a bit much himself, all blunt honesty and unrelenting drive.

“Y-You better fucking not!” Oikawa trips over his words, “I mean, you better buy a new one, I will absolutely say no if you use this monstrosity, I’m a good catch you know!  I’m hot, I’m important, you know this, and I could get some other—”  The rant starts to trail off, in part because Oikawa is running out of steam already, and in part because Ushijima is laughing, and the sight is making Oikawa’s breath catch in his throat.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Ushijima crosses the kitchen, reaching out to Oikawa, who collapses into his chest without even a second thought.  Ushijima’s hand is warm when it comes up to stroke the space between Oikawa’s shoulder blades soothingly, “I just like to see you get riled up.”

“Shut up,” Oikawa mumbles, voice muffled from where his face is pressed firmly in the crook of Ushijima’s neck.  That’s just like Ushijima, he thinks, to prod at him in the exact way he knows will bother Oikawa the most.  Although, to be fair, it is just like Oikawa to do the exact same thing to Ushijima.  It’s just how it is with them; a constant push and pull, an unconscious battle fought in between these calm moments of domesticity.

(Oikawa can’t wait to do it for the rest of their lives.)

**Author's Note:**

> as usual feel free to hmu up on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/isthiswinnie) or on [tumblr](http://www.hotelscalifornia.tumblr.com) !


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